


and far from him into heaven shone the bronze

by forgetme



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, POV Alternating, Present Tense, Season/Series 06, Self-Indulgent, The Iliad References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgetme/pseuds/forgetme
Summary: “Sure, this is going to be a surprise, but a good one! It’s not Surprise, you’re being stabbed! It’s Surprise, you get cake!”“I don’t particularly care for cake,” Kevin replies, “it is too sweet and I dislike the texture.”Jake's husband gut is on point. Academic publications are overpriced. Someone is getting swept off his feet tonight.(takes place during late-ish season six)
Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago (mentioned), Kevin Cozner & Jake Peralta, Kevin Cozner/Ray Holt, Ray Holt & Jake Peralta
Comments: 21
Kudos: 200





	and far from him into heaven shone the bronze

Over the years at the Nine-Nine, Raymond Holt has become somewhat used to the casual mistreatment of his office door and his eardrums by his subordinates, but Peralta continues to be a challenge. 

Today in particular, he is striking the flimsy wood like a young Yoichi Hiraoka might have struck his xylophone, had he been drunk while simultaneously suffering an epilepsy attack. The reason for this, Raymond suspects, might be because it is Friday afternoon, and there are a mere thirteen minutes and twenty-nine seconds left until the end of Peralta’s and Santiago’s shift. Additionally, both of them are off duty for the weekend as well as the entirety of the coming week.

“Come in,” Raymond calls, dragging a hand across his face. While Peralta’s enthusiasm - for lack of a better word - might be the beginning of a “vacation high” - a term he has heard Jacob use - he is feeling quite the opposite. Before him lies a week filled with headaches and unwelcome chores, not to mention one without Kevin. 

“Hi, sir, just thought I’d check in with you.” Peralta all but springs into his office and lets himself drop into one of the chairs opposite Raymond’s desk, his posture, as usual, abysmal. “All my paperwork’s done, I’ve cleaned all the perishables out of my locker, so this time there will be no monster mildew incident, you’re welcome, _and_ I’ve done some tasteful manscaping.” 

His expression schooled into workplace-appropriate neutrality, Raymond allows his detective a second to reconsider his statement.

Peralta’s grin dims. “That last one was meant for Amy, not for you, sorry.”

Raymond rolls his eyes. He very much doubts the _tasteful_ part. “Was there anything else?” 

“Nope just… wanted to see how excited you were, you know, for the coming week?” Peralta leans in, eyebrows raised. “New assistant starting Monday?”

If anything, the reminder demoralizes him further. “Another ploy courtesy of Commissioner Kelly.”

“Oh, if it’s another sex spy, promise me you’ll keep him around until Amy and I get back!”

“I will make no such promises. I refuse to debase myself in the manner you had me do last time,” Raymond replies, giving Jake a look.

“Buuut you made up with Kev and everything was fine after. Better than fine, if I remember our conversation in the elevator correctly.” This time, Peralta wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

It is true that he shared a memorable night with his husband in the aftermath of Operation T.R.I.P.L.E. D.R.A.G.O.N., however, he has sworn to himself that he will never put Kevin through such turmoil again. Doctor Kevin Cozner is the love of his life. There isn’t and there never will be anyone else for him.

He inclines is head, choosing to withhold further comment.

“Speaking of ah” Peralta adopts his strange, vaguely British accented voice, the one that is supposed to make him sound sophisticated but in fact has quite the opposite effect, “your esteemed husband, I trust you have magnificent plans for Thursday?”

Thursday, the eighth anniversary of their wedding. Of course Peralta would bring this up in the workplace where it does not belong.

“I will not be in town,” Raymond says evenly.

“Because you’re going on a romantic trip with Kevin.” Jake’s face is shining with eagerness and Raymond can’t find it within himself to fault Jake for it. God help him, but Peralta’s (over-)investment in his marriage has grown on him. Had anyone told him that, decades into his career, a fellow NYPD detective (male! straight!) would speak about his husband with such warmth, he would not have believed it.

However, he has to disappoint Peralta.

“No. Unfortunately, I have to testify at a trial outside the city early Friday morning, whereas my husband is currently in Boston. He won’t return until Thursday evening. By then I will have to be in Dutchess County to meet with the district attorney.”

Jake slumps back into the chair, grimacing in disbelief. “What? But it’s your anniversary! Sir, you can’t not see each other on your anniversary.”

The double negative almost makes Raymond cringe. 

“We will celebrate our anniversary on the weekend after. I have already made reservations at a wonderful restaurant Kevin loves. The waiting list was quite long.” Saturday night is the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel that is the coming week. Raymond is looking forward to it.

For some reason, this does not bring the conversation to what Raymond had perceived as its natural end. Instead Peralta whines, “I know they can’t reschedule a whole trial, but couldn’t Kevin just come to you from Boston?”

Raymond has had a similar discussion with his husband. He reiterates the point he made then.

“I would not ask Kevin to make a two and a half hour drive from the airport into the countryside for a brief tête-à-tête, after which he would have to drive back home because he has to teach Friday morning. My husband is a busy man, Peralta. In fact, he has just published a book.”

There was no need to divulge this last piece of information to Jake. Raymond, however, simply enjoys telling people. This very morning, after he had ordered plain toast and a glass of water at Two Daughters, he said to the waitress, “By the way, my husband recently finished his book.” Later at painting class he told everyone, “I would like to learn how to paint something as sophisticated as the design on the cover of my husband’s new book. Look at the symmetry and the absence of color.” Then, at fencing he opened with the line, “Good Morning, Dan. Kevin’s new book is going to be available for purchase soon.”

“Oh, he has?” Jake asks with barely a fraction of the excitement Kevin’s latest work deserves.

“Yes, I have it right here.” Raymond reaches out to caress the thick hardcover edition sitting prominently next to tiny Cheddar. He has been taking it everywhere he goes, though he cannot read it in public. The contents are simply too… stimulating.

“Woah, that’s a book? I thought that was one of Sarge’s weights.” Childishly impulsive as always, Jake snatches it off his desk and carelessly flips it open. “722 pages?” he breathes, running his fingers through them in a manner so thoughtless it makes Raymond’s skin crawl. “And it’s all one long sentence.”

Raymond bristles. Kevin’s prose is clear and concise, each word in each sentence placed with the same attention a swiss watchmaker would pay a gear in his finely-tuned clockwork. “This book costs 400 dollars,” he informs his detective, who might be too much of a simpleton to appreciate the sheer brilliance of its contents but should at least understand the concept of monetary value. 

“ _Four_ hundred dollars?” Perlata exclaims, then blinks, his brow furrowing. “Wait, no, four isn’t the outrageous part, _hundred_ is! This can’t be worth hundreds of dollars, it’s just paper with words on it. There aren’t even any pictures...”

Raymond nods to himself, grim determination setting inside him like concrete. “Peralta, give me your gun and your badge,” he says, his voice as calm as the eye of a storm.

Startled, Jake puts down the book and wraps one hand around the shield dangling from his neck. “Why?”

“Because you’re _fired_!”´Raymond spits.

“Okay, you know what, sir? Fine. Have it your way, but,” Jake jumps out of his chair to wave a finger in Raymond’s face, “from one husband to another, you only have one wedding anniversary a year and seeing how crusty and old you are, you should make it count.”

“From one husband to another?” Raymond scoffs. “Peralta, please. You have been married for little more than one year. You have barely reached your first anniversary, the _paper_ one. Do you know what that means?” Raymond leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “It means your entire marriage is worth about one page in my husband’s book, _son_.”

Jake gasps. “How dare you, dad? On our anniversaries, I sweep Amy off her feet. Because that’s what a good husband does.” 

“Sweep my husband off his feet?” Raymond sends a derisive chuckle after his retreating detective. “So he will fall and injure himself? Never!”

“Urgh, it’s a figure of speech!” Peralta shouts before closing the door. 

As Raymond watches him walk away, no doubt in search of his wife, a small sigh escapes his lips. He puts his left hand on the cover of Kevin’s book and thinks of the dedication printed on the title page.

Even alone in his office, he can’t allow himself to reread it - or even worse, the line thanking him in the acknowledgements - because it makes his heart soar with emotion.

Perhaps Peralta does have a point…

But Kevin is busy; they both are and they have already agreed on Saturday. It is a nice, practical solution. 

***

Jake’s going to prove Holt wrong. His groom gut was on point and so is his husband gut. His two dads are super weird, but they deserve a real anniversary, not some boring, routine dinner at a boring, routine restaurant two days after the fact. 

When he tells Amy after dinner that evening, her smile falters slightly, a hint of doubt becoming evident in the way her brows knit.

“Are you sure you should get involved in this, babe?” she asks, her tone telling him that what she actually wants to say is, _you should not get involved in this._

“Remember how you’re always trying to give Holt presents?”

This makes Amy look miserable but her chin juts out in defiance.

“Yeah, and it never ends well.”

Jake grins. “One time, he called the bomb squad.”

“I know, Jake, I was there.”

“Well, there’s one thing we know he likes for sure.”

“Kevin,” Amy supplies.

Jake nods. “If he loves Kevin half as much as I love you, he does _not_ want to miss this anniversary. He’s just saying it’s fine so Kevin won’t have to do all that driving and running around.”

“Jake.” Amy is smiling now, one of her very soft ones, with her eyes all shiny. It makes Jake’s heart turn to mush.

He can feel himself smile back already; he couldn’t not, it’d be like trying to stop his heart from beating.

“And if Kevin loves Holt half as much as I love you,” he continues, “he’d be more than willing to drive all the way around the world and back again to see him, even just for a few minutes, but he probably thinks Holt doesn’t want him to.”

“So you’ll do the driving.” Amy doesn’t even need to ask because she knows him so well by now. She reaches across the table to take his hand.

Jake grins.

“That’s the plan. I’m going to make Holt really happy and then I’m going to rub it in his face.”

***

Despite everything they’ve been through together, Jake doesn’t have Kev’s cell phone number. Luckily, he’s still got his private email address from that time Kevin invited them all to the captain’s birthday party.

So Jake does the obvious thing, he shoots his best friend Kev a quick email:

_Hey Kev,_

_“if there’s something wrong, those who have the ability to take action have the responsibility to take action.”_

_\- Nic Cage in National Treasure, remember?_

_How’s Boston?_

_Okay, so Captain Holt told me you won’t celebrate your anniversary with him on Thursday because it’s too much driving or whatever. (What is he even doing out there in Dutchess County???)_

_Don’t tell the captain, but I think you should surprise him there Thursday night. Charles asked the new assistant about it and it seems he rented a private cabin for Holt somewhere out in the woods. Perfect romantic getaway! (also Charles said Holt HATES the new assistant, so score?) Sweep him off his feet (Holt, not the assistant)! I can come pick you up from the airport and get you there and back. You can sleep in the car. Think about it. Wouldn’t you rather spend your anniversary with your hot-ass husband and his super wet brain (I felt gross typing that) than alone with your dog (btw. Boyle can take Cheddar for a day - family reunion with his two now giant slobbering babies!)?_

_Jake (your best friend)_

_P.S.: Congrats on the book. Amy said it’s been nominated for some awards already. Holt showed it to me and it’s very big and heavy, so I think your chances are probably good?_

The very next day, a reply from Kevin is in his inbox:

_Dear Detective Peralta,_

_I would prefer not to be reminded of those dreadful films._

_Furthermore, I doubt your interest in the city of Boston is genuine._

_As for your third concern - the reason behind this correspondence, I suppose - yes, Raymond and I have discussed our upcoming anniversary at length and decided to postpone celebrations._

_You are correct in your assumption that I would much rather be with my husband (your superior officer - please refrain from making inappropriate comments regarding his physical appearance) on our anniversary than alone with Cheddar (although I do love him dearly). As our decision was based on Raymond’s reluctance to subject me to hours in traffic as well as the risk of arriving late and exhausted to class Friday morning, I have to say that, somewhat despite myself, I find myself actually interested in your offer. However, I do have some questions: Where would you spend the night? Why the need for secrecy? And why would I want to “sweep my husband off his feet”? Such reckless behaviour could result in serious injury._

_Sincerely,_

_Dr. Kevin Cozner, Ph.D._

_Post scriptum: This may come as a shock to you, but academic publications are not judged by the same criteria as one’s catch in a fishing contest._

It’s weird how reading Kev’s mail makes him grin. Thing is, he does miss Kevin sometimes, even though he is a huge nerd with no sense of humor and the worst taste in movies. 

Jake writes back that he wants to keep the anniversary surprise secret because that’s what makes it a surprise, duh, and seriously what is the deal with the Dutchess County trial?

Kevin informs him that on his way back from a visit to his sister one weekend Holt stopped by “a lovely little ristorante” to purchase a takeout dinner to bring home to Kevin and apparently walked straight into a couple of “would-like-to-be mafiosi”, as Kevin puts it, trying to extort protection money from the owner of said ristorante. Naturally, “my ever heroic husband” stepped in and handled the situation. As a consequence, the thugs were promptly arrested and now Holt has to testify in the trial.

Honestly, Jake’s a little miffed but not surprised. Holt’s already an amazing cop, does he also have to be an old school action hero in his spare time?

Either way, after a little bit of back and forth, Kevin agrees to let Jake come pick him up at his house Thursday evening.

***

If anything, spending his time off with Amy makes Jake more determined to sacrifice one night for Holt and Kevin. Holt would never admit it, but he definitely needs a break - and the honeymoon crashing doesn’t count, since he spent all of it in a depressive funk. He’s gone from working his butt off in order to make commissioner to being crushed and from there straight into battle mode with John Kelly breathing down his neck. It can’t have been easy for them, Jake thinks, which might explain why Kev agreed to this. 

Jake meets Charles in front of Holt’s house. The white columns are practically glowing in the late evening sunlight, making the place look even more fancy than usual. 

“Jakey!” Charles exclaims, “Oh, how I’ve missed you. The precinct is hell without you there. Let me bask in your newly-wed glow!”

“Hey, Charles.” Studying his buddy, Jake can’t help but think that this could all still fall apart if they - Charles particularly - make the wrong move. “Ready to pick up Cheddar? I promised Kev you wouldn’t set yourself on fire this time.”

“Jake,” Charles begins to say, in that tone, the one Jake knows well enough to quickly grab the knocker and knock. “You know I’m only burning for--”

Thankfully, the door opens and there is Kevin, expression as blank as ever, but definitely dressed up, in a grey suit with a dotted burgundy tie.

“Detective Boyle, Detective Peralta, Good Evening.”

“Keeeev, you look great. Wow, you went all out.” 

“Thank you. Please come in. I have to finish packing Cheddar’s bag before we leave.”

“Kevin, dare I say you look like a more mature version of Prince Philip!” Charles says as they step across the threshold, making Jake instantly wish he’d found someone else to dogsit. 

“I look like a more mature version of Queen Elizabeth’s 96 year old husband?” Kevin asks, one eyebrow creeping up to his neatly parted hair.

This isn’t good. Jake needs to do something. “Can we maybe stop saying the word mature?” he suggests. Because yuk.

“No, the Disney prince!” Charles gives Jake a look like they’re on the same page and then he tells Kevin earnestly, “You look like a _riper_ version of the prince from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty!”

Not the same page at all, completely different book, or in Charles’ case more like sleazy 80s porn mag. “Yep, that’s worse,” Jake says faintly.

Kevin seems to think so too. “I… thank you?”

“And you smell--”

“Let’s not go into that, Charles, buddy, okay?” Although Jake has to admit Kevin does smell extremely good. Like a fresh spring meadow, but he really doesn’t need to hear Charles describe it. It’s bad enough that he’s currently inhaling deeply with his eyes closed. “Anyway, we’re here. Here we are…”

“Yes,” Kevin says quickly, eager to get this over with. “Please wait here. I will only be a minute.”

When he returns with a small duffel bag and Cheddar already leashed, Jake breathes a sigh of relief. Okay, this is happening. 

“Someone is going to be a proud daddy tonight!” Charles croons as he takes the leash from Kevin.

“Yep, Holt is going to--” Dammit, wrong words are coming out of Jake’s mouth! He clamps it shut, swallows and tries again. “Um, I mean, yeah, we’re talking about Cheddar reuniting with his huge babies, clearly. Moving on.”

Luckily, Charles has his back. “Congratulations on the new book, by the way. The captain showed it to me; it looked really impressive.”

Kevin nods, momentarily distracted. “Thank you, Detective Boyle.”

Grateful for the topic change, Jake chimes in. “Yeah, he loves that book. He totally threatened to fire me when I said it wasn’t worth four hundred bucks.”

“Excuse me, when you said what?”

Uh-oh. “Um, nothing. Great book, definitely would pay more for it than for a Nintendo Switch.” Jake grins awkwardly, tucking his bottom lip under his teeth. “Money well spent. All that paper, with all those words on it. Sentences. Good... sentences.”

Kevin narrows his eyes. “He should fire you.”

Wonderful. Jake is feeling very underappreciated right now. “Wow, hey, I came here to help you. Because he clearly wants to see you on your anniversary and you clearly want to see him. But!” He holds up one finger to make his point. “You’re too polite to say you want to come and he’s too polite to tell you to come.” Jake knows he should resist, but he can’t. “Overly long title of your overly long sextape,” he adds under his breath.

Apparently, Kevin has nothing to say to that. Shaking his head, he simply walks over to the door and steps outside, expecting the others to follow him. 

***

Kevin is quiet in the car, sitting ramrod straight, hands folded in his lap.

“Everything okay there, Kev?” Jake asks after a good ten minutes have passed in complete silence. 

Surprisingly, Kevin looks at him with trepidation in his eyes.

“I’m wondering if this is perhaps a bad idea. Raymond does not like surprises. God knows his job is exciting enough. And even when he is not on duty, trouble seems to find him.”

“You’re not trouble.” Jake trains his eyes back on the road ahead, strangely touched by Kevin opening up to him. “Sure, this is going to be a surprise, but a good one! It’s not _Surprise, you’re being stabbed!_ It’s _Surprise, you get cake!_ ”

“I don’t particularly care for cake,” Kevin replies, “it is too sweet and I dislike the texture.”

“Of course you don’t. Sorry, forgot for a second whom I was talking to.”

“To whom I was talking,” Kevin corrects.

“Yep, there it is.” Jake thinks for a moment, remembering his track record with bringing surprise guests to romantic getaways. It’s not great. He glances over at Kevin, who is staring somewhat miserably through the windshield. “You and the captain aren’t having trouble, right?”

If this is a breakup trip, they’re all doomed.

“No. I am merely frustrated. And so is he.”

“Okay?”

“The success of my new book should make me feel incredibly accomplished, but all I can think about is how unfair it is that I should reap these rewards when my husband, who has worked so hard all his life, who has done so much for his community, continues to be disrespected and mistreated by his superiors. Whatever Raymond does, the NYPD will find fault with him.”

Can’t really argue with that. John Kelly is just the tip of a thirty-year-old iceberg. “At least _your_ colleagues think he’s hot,” Jake offers.

Kevin shrugs. “Well, his hotness _is_ indisputable.” He sighs softly, wringing his hands in his lap. “This week was especially difficult for him. His new so-called assistant was hired by the department. They bypassed him by redefining the position. This time they have planted their spy openly. I suppose I should be grateful for that as it is better than… the _events_ involving a certain Mister Gordon Lundt.”

“I had no idea.”Jake’s grip tightens around the steering wheel. Kev is no longer the only one feeling frustrated. But this isn’t really news. Kelly has been trying to sabotage Holt ever since he became commissioner, and he’ll keep trying. “We’ll just have to find a way to get rid of him.”

“For what it’s worth, Jake,” Kevin says softly, “I’m glad he has you and the rest of the Nine-Nine. You have done a lot for him.”

It’s been six years, six years that have changed Jake’s life. He doesn’t know where he would even be without Holt’s influence, he doesn’t know that he wants to know because he loves where he is now. But yeah, it stinks that Holt didn’t get the commissioner job, and that a snake like John Kelly did.

In his time with the captain, Kevin must have seen his share of John Kellys - and possibly worse. No wonder he’s tired. 

Ames is going to climb the ladder and she’s going to change the NYPD for the better, Jake has no doubt about that. He’s gonna be by her side for as long as she’ll have him. He glances over at Kevin again, at Kevin’s profile flashing in the light of an oncoming truck. He looks so dignified. If Jake can do half as good a job as Amy’s husband as Kevin is doing as Holt’s, they have nothing to fear, he thinks.

“You’ll definitely sweep him off his feet tonight,” Jake says and rolls his eyes when Kevin immediately starts protesting.

***

It is 10:32 p.m. and Dr. Kevin Cozner is deeply worried. 

“Raymond was going to call me at 10:30 p.m.,” he tells Peralta, who is currently driving them down a dirt road through a veritable tunnel of trees. The forest around them is pitchblack, their headlights turning the flora into ghostly grey apparitions drifting past the windows of their car. 

Jake glances over and Kevin tilts his phone, allowing him to see the screen.

“You have zero bars,” Jake says, “the captain won’t be able to reach you.”

“Oh no, he’ll be so worried.” Kevin sinks deeper into his seat, feeling anxious at the thought of Raymond trying in vain to place a call to him. “Ever since Seamus Murphy...,” he hears himself say and bites his lip.

“Kev, relax, we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” 

The road takes a turn and - Kevin would not have thought this possible - the ride becomes even bumpier. 

“Man, this new assistant must really hate Holt. Why would you pick this place?” Jake mumbles.

They both breathe a sigh of relief when they see the outline of the cabin.

“See, Charles’ directions were good! We’re not lost in the woods in a car with no working heater and no other choice than to get naked and cling to each other to keep from freezing to death!”

“This was a concern?” Kevin asks faintly, more than a little disturbed by Peralta’s joyful exclamation.

“Nope, nope, never a concern,” Jake replies a little too quickly for comfort.

Raymond’s car is parked in front of the small wooden cabin. Jake stops next to it and cuts the engine, keeping the headlights on for a moment longer. Looking at the building, Kevin cannot help but feel a sense of dread creep up on him. This feels wrong.

“Why is it so dark?” Despite not having made a conscious decision to do so, Kevin finds himself whispering his question. His gaze is drawn to the square window next to the front door. There is no light coming from inside the cabin.

“No clue. Did he say anything about going somewhere tonight?” When Kevin shakes his head, Jake leans over into Kevin’s space to open the glove compartment. To Kevin’s shock, he retrieves his gun and badge. 

“You’re not the only one who has had some traumatic experiences,” Jake says by way of explanation before grimacing. “Don’t tell Amy. She’ll make me go to therapy.”

Kevin nods. He can’t say he isn’t grateful for Jake’s presence beside him, although he would feel even safer if it was Raymond. Where is Raymond? The question is swelling inside his mind, pushing all other thoughts away.

“Maybe you should wait in the car,” Jake says, but Kevin shakes his head and opens his door.

He climbs outside and marches up to the porch. Jake follows on his heels, cursing under his breath.

“Dammit, Kevin!”

It is cold and dark. Gravel crunches under the soles of his shoes, leather Oxfords - inappropriate footwear for the terrain - Raymond will scold him. He has left his coat in the car with the bottle of wine and the food he prepared.

In front of the door, Kevin hesitates. This is where Peralta catches up to him, wrapping a hand around his wrist and pulling him back. 

“Perhaps he isn’t feeling well,” Kevin mumbles. His heart is racing. This is not like Ray at all.

“I’ll go first,” Jake says and inserts himself between Kevin and the door. Right hand on his gun, he knocks with his left. “Captain Holt? Are you in there?”

They both stiffen when they hear it, a muffled noise, followed by a thump. Kevin’s hands ball into fists. 

“NYPD! Open up!” Jake yells, drawing his gun. “Go back to the car, Kev.”

Kevin’s back is pressed to the wall of the cabin. He shakes his head, but glances over to where they’re parked. He gasps. There is someone there. A dark figure, ducking between the cars. 

“Peralta.”

Jake must have seen it too, because he snatches Kevin’s wrist and pulls him away, just as the first gunshot cuts through the night.

***

Kevin stumbles along, his mind overwhelmed with fear for Raymond. He flinches when light comes on in the cabin behind them and cranes his neck to see. The door has been opened. Someone is standing there. The silhouette is too tall and lanky. It is not Raymond.

A man shouts after them, “Come back here! We’ve got your captain! You can’t run anyway!”

But Peralta is running, his grip like a vise around Kevin’s wrist.

***

The thug’s voice rings out again, this time louder and even more pissed than before. Jake pulls hard on Kevin’s arm, trying to get him deeper into the undergrowth, away from the faint glow of light coming from the windows of the cabin, but Kev is stiff, resisting.

“Hey! You hearing me, Detective, Professor?” Shit, so they know who Jake and Kevin are. “We’ve got your captain right here, so you better stop running!” Yeah, right. “You know what, if you don’t come out, I’ll shoot him. I’ll count to ten, then he’s dead.”

Kevin stops abruptly, forcing Jake to stop as well. 

“Kev,” Jake whispers, “he’s bluffing. He can’t kill the captain; they need a hostage.” At least that’s what Jake’s trying to tell himself. Either way, he has to keep Kevin safe. Which means he has to keep him moving. But he’s not, so Jake uses the second to shoot another breathless glance at is phone. Still no bars. He’s starting to get an idea why the new assistant might have picked this place. Which would mean that he’s in on this.

Kev is shaking his head, his skin deathly pale in the dark.

“One!”

“They must have come here to stop Raymond from testifying tomorrow. They do not need a hostage, Peralta. They’ll simply kill him.” There’s panic in Kevin’s voice, rising despite the way he is obviously trying to keep it down. And he won’t budge, no matter how hard Jake pulls on his wrist.

“Two!”

It’s true; they probably don’t need a hostage. If this is about the trial, they want Holt dead. They’ll use him if it means they’ll get Kev and Jake too, but they definitely came here to kill Holt. 

Jake swallows, his eyes searching the darkness around them. He thinks there’s something moving in the dark, still a ways away but not far enough. 

“Three!”

“We have to go, Kevin.”

“Four!”

“I am not--”

“Abandoning your husband, I know!” Jake snaps, frustrated. How is Kevin so strong? It must be all the ridiculously heavy books he’s lifting all the time. Jake bites his lip. His heart is racing; he’s sweating.

“Five!”

He thinks about Holt in the safe house. His stupid expressionless face. His dumb bland voice. 

_Whose blood is this? It’s Kevin’s? I am devastated. Aaand I’ve killed myself._

It’s the most painful thought he’s ever had, but he has to say it because he has to protect Kevin at all cost. That’s what the captain would want. “Kev, he might already be--”

Kev doesn’t even let him finish the sentence. The whites of his eyes seem to flash in the dark. “We would have heard a gunshot from inside the cabin.”

“Six!”

Jake wants to say something like _you don’t know that, we only just got here_ or _it doesn’t matter because we need to go_ , but Kevin actually takes a step towards him and the sudden lack of resistance makes Jake stumble backwards against the gnarly trunk of a tree. Kevin grabs Jake’s shoulders; his grip is so hard that it hurts. His eyes are wild.

“Give me your gun, Peralta.”

“What? No--”

“I have a plan. Give me your gun and your shield; we don’t have time!”

“Seven!”

Okay, so Kevin has lost it.

“No. You’re a civilian. I need to get you out of here. They will _kill_ you.”

“I will be you. I will surrender and I will tell them that I sent Holt’s husband away, that they can have me if they let you go.”

“That’s nuts,” Jake hisses. “They might shoot you on sight. Hell, they already shot at us. If they know we’re the professor and the detective, they probably know what we look like, don’t you think?”

But Kevin shakes his head.

“We have no other choice. I’ll distract them, you have to take them out one by one. Now give me your gun and the shield.”

“Eight!”

“No, Kevin. Captain Holt would never agree to this. Your life--”

And just like that Kevin’s fingers dig even harder into Jake’s shoulders as he slams Jake into the trunk of the tree.

“He _is_ my life!” Kevin’s voice, toneless, the words, the desperation and the sheer amount of love in them cut Jake to the quick.

It’s hopeless.

Jake’s not going to be able to stop this. If he keeps trying, Kev will throat punch him into oblivion and just take what he needs that way.

Plus, if they make any more noise, they will be caught and shot anyway.

With trembling fingers, Jake takes off his shield and hands it over.

“Kev…,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes. 

Kevin releases him. He takes the shield, slips the chain over his head and holds out his hand for Jake’s gun. 

“Wait,” he says, “could you give me your jacket as well, please?”

Jake nods; he shrugs out of his leather jacket. Kev takes off his suit jacket. After they have solemnly exchanged jackets, Jake puts Kevin’s on. It’s warm and smells like a spring meadow.

Holding his breath, he listens for any suspicious sounds close to them. He still doesn’t know how many there are. One by the cars, one on the porch. Probably more inside.

Kev squares his shoulders and nods.

“It’s like looking in a mirror only… not,” he says.

John Travolta as Castor Troy as Sean Archer in Face/Off. Jake swallows against the tightness in his throat.

“Nine!” the thug yells, voice frayed with rage. “Come on, you really want him to die? It’s your choice!”

Without another word to Jake, Kev turns around and starts running back in the direction of the cabin. 

“Wait,” he shouts, “I surrender.”

Jake goes the opposite way, blood rushing in his ears, trying not to hear, trying not to wait for the inevitable sound of a gunshot.

 _I love you too, Dad_ , he thinks.

***

Kevin is terrified, so terrified that he finds it difficult to breathe, so he quickly takes off his tie and stuffs it in his pocket. Then, for good measure and because nothing matters anymore now, he undoes the three top buttons on his white dress shirt. Peralta’s jacket is tight and warm; it feels a little like armor. He thinks of linothorax, then Phobos and Deimos, riding into battle with their father Ares. Kevin certainly is no Ares and yet here are Phobos and Deimos by his side.

He raises his hands as high as possible, one holding the gun, the other the shield. 

“Don’t shoot, I surrender!” he repeats as he stumbles through the forest towards the cabin. 

Eight years ago on this day…

It is must be almost eleven p.m. now, so where would he have been back then?

Ah, yes.

In bed with Raymond.

Raymond had spilled his glass of red wine all over the sheets. At first Ray had cursed, then when Kevin had laughed, he had laughed as well and then they’d rolled around in it in reckless abandon as the sheets were already ruined anyway. They could always buy a new mattress as well, Kevin remembers pointing out, as they were certainly no longer limited by the budget restrictions of the young assistant professor and detective who would have gotten married years ago had they been able to. 

Had he known that eight years later, he would be here, alone in a dark forest, gun in his hand, stumbling towards what might very well be his demise, would he still have said yes that day?

No, Kevin cannot even ask himself this question. 

Of course he would have said yes to Raymond Holt. 

_Oh, well, then I never would have heard your hilarious efficient-officiant quip._

_You’re right, I regret nothing._

He would always say yes to Raymond Holt.

In the dark, Kevin’s foot collides with something, tripping him. He stumbles, dropping the shield to blindly grasp for a tree to hold on to. 

A hand wraps around his arm instead, pulling it behind his back and shoving him face-first into rough bark.

“Don’t move, Cop,” the man behind him snarls. “Where’s the professor?”

Kevin can feel the muzzle of a gun press into the back of his neck. He sucks in a shaky breath, his knees threatening to give out.

“I told him to run. He’s a civilian; he’s no threat to you. Please let him go.”

Dead leaves rustle as a another figure approaches. Kevin can only see the dark silhouette out of the corner of his eye. His nose is filled with the rotting smell of the tree; something tickles the skin under his eye. It might be an insect crawling over his face or a tear slipping down his cheek. Kevin can’t even tell.

“Got one,” the second man says.

***

Thankfully, they don’t shoot Kevin out there in the woods. Instead, they drag him back to the cabin. Kevin can’t breathe a sigh of relief because he feels as though he can’t breathe at all. His heart is palpitating wildly. He has to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. 

He is a cop, he tells himself. He is Detective Jacob Peralta and he is not afraid. If he wants to give Jake an advantage, he has to make them believe that. With every step, Jake’s shield bounces lightly against his chest. Kevin has the strange urge to wrap his hand around it, but he can’t. One of his arms is twisted painfully behind his back, held in a deathgrip by one of the thugs, the other hangs limply by his side. He was told not to make any sudden movements and the gun digging into his back is a strong motivator.

The man with the gun is pushing him, sending him stumbling towards the cabin. The second man is walking along next to them, Kevin presumes he is there to ensure Kevin does not try anything.

Once they reach the cabin, the light from the window reveals his face. He is younger than Kevin assumed, in his twenties perhaps, his skin unlined but his jaw scruffy with stubble. 

“We got the cop,” he shouts and pushes impatiently against the door until the lock clicks and someone pulls it open from inside.

While the second thug steps aside to let them pass, the man behind Kevin shoves him hard, almost sending him flying across the threshold.

He wrenches Kevin’s arm to keep him from falling over, so hard Kevin has to bite his lip to stifle the sound of pain threatening to escape him.

They are in a very small anteroom with another young man, this one clean-shaven and curly haired but not much older than the other one. 

“The husband’s still out there?” he asks, glaring past Kevin. “Fucking get him! Maybe seeing us fuck his guy up will finally make the old man sing.”

 _Make him sing?_ Kevin thinks, _who do these boys think they are?_

Anyway, it seems he was right. These thugs don’t know what Jake and Kevin look like; his plan is working. He wishes Perata were here so he could gloat.

Then the young man punches him in the stomach and Kevin remembers that this is not the time for pettiness.

His body convulses in the iron grip of the man behind him, the pain making him nauseous. 

“Leo, go back out there and help Freddy and Trey look. Joe, let’s show the old man what we got.”

Kevin hears Leo, the man who had remained by the front door, leave. Which means that there are three men outside, searching the woods for Peralta.

He grunts when the man behind him - Joe - gives him a push. The other one, the one with the curly hair, walks through the door in front of them first. 

Before passing through, Kevin looks up at the taxidermy stag’s head displayed over the doorway. He can see his reflection in the dead animal’s marble eyes, warped by the glass. It makes Kevin feel sick.

“Move,” Joe snarls, shoving the gun into his back.

“We got your detective,” curly hair crows. Kevin is staring at his back - he’s wearing a brown suede jacket, which falls oddly over the waistband of his trousers. A gun? Kevin wonders, but then he takes a step aside and--

And there is Raymond.

Tied to a chair with duct-tape, a strip of it covering his mouth. His face swollen and exhausted. 

Alive.

Their eyes meet.

Raymond’s nostrils flare. His eyes widen, sweat shining on his forehead. Kevin can see his husband’s entire body tense as he strains against his bonds.

The look on Raymond’s face is one of pure horror. It is heartbreaking. 

“First we’ll kill your cop friend here, and then your husband is gonna be next,” curly hair announces.

Both men are facing Raymond, so Kevin uses the moment - it might be his last chance - to mouth “I love you” to his husband. Raymond’s throat works silently as he swallows, unshed tears shining in his eyes.

Kevin is shoved to the ground. Finally his arm is released and he catches himself - barely - on the wooden floor. He kneels there, panting for breath, staring into the gaps between the floorboards because if he were to look up at Raymond now, he might not be able to control himself.

When curly hair spins around, Kevin does look up, and is shocked by the expression on the young man’s face - it is so gleeful - lips peeling back to reveal straight white teeth in a grin that could be from a television commercial. It is with this grin that the young man draws his foot back, then kicks Kevin in the ribs, sending him crashing to the floor. 

“Fuck you, Pig!” he shouts, laughing as if he has made a joke. Joe chuckles as well while Kevin curls in on himself on the floor, every breath he draws slicing into his lungs. He hears a gun cock. 

“Coward,” Kevin coughs.

“What’s that, Pig?” Curly hair bends down to look him in the eye.

“You couldn’t--” This is really the only plan he has, and it’s not much of a plan. He looks at Raymond’s shoes, the way his ankles strain against the duct-tape. His Raymond is a fighter. Kevin has a lot to live up to. “You couldn’t take me in a fight,” he chokes out. 

“Oh? You hear that, Joe? Grandpa’s getting cocky.” 

Despite everything, Kevin still bristles at grandpa. He is not that old. 

“Ey, we got time.” Curly hair spreads his arms in invitation. “We still gotta get that gay little history professor.”

It takes all of Kevin’s self-control to keep himself from snapping “Classics!” He pushes himself up, palms flat on the smooth floor, and glares at the young man. 

With his deep tan, dark eyes and black hair, he bears something of a resemblance to a certain former assistant of his husband. Kevin has very little difficulty imagining his fist in that smug face.

“Okay, old man, we can dance,” curly hair croons, even as Joe behind them scoffs, “Really, Ronny?”

Ronny? Truly a name befitting such a malicious imbecile. 

“Yeah, I feel like beating up another cop tonight. Come on, get up.”

Kevin struggles to his feet. This is hardly going to be a fair fight - he already hurts so much. He glances over his shoulder and, yes, Joe’s gun is still pointed at his back. Furthermore, Joe does not look happy; he seems to have more sense than his friend. He scowls at Kevin, but says nothing.

One hand holding his aching side, Kevin lets his gaze flit through the room. They’re in a living room with a kitchenette in the corner to his right. Couch and couch table with one book on it about ten feet from him by the far wall. 

Raymond’s chair is in the far left corner of the room and when Kevin looks at him, his heart constricts. There is so much anguish in Raymond’s eyes, so much fear - and Kevin knows Raymond is not afraid for himself - though he must be in pain - he is afraid for Kevin.

It could be over at any second. The moment Joe decides that this is going too far and pulls the trigger--

Ronny plants himself firmly between Kevin and Raymond. He is still grinning, arms open.

“What’re you waiting for, hm?” 

The stupid boy tosses his head in an almost flirtatious manner and flexes his fingers. “I’ll let you go first, old man.”

If Kevin were to reverse their positions somehow, if he managed to grab Ronny and toss him at Joe, maybe he could then scramble for Raymond? And free him using what? His hands? Impossible. There might be a knife in the drawers somewhere in the kitchenette, but it is too far away to make a dash for it. If he tried, Joe would certainly pull the trigger.

Which leaves what?

The weapon Ronny is carrying shoved down the back of his waistband? Reaching it would require grappling with the young man. Behind Kevin, Joe is waiting for him to make the wrong move. 

Kevin blinks. He is no Pythia and his futile calculations have taken a second too long.

“What?” the boy taunts. “You scared now?”

Kevin glances past him, trying to catch a glimpse of his husband’s face, but Ronny takes a step forward, blocking his view. He shoves Kevin, both hands pushing against his shoulders, the way little boys on playgrounds do. When Kevin almost loses his balance, he sucks his teeth in dismay.

Two thoughts enter Kevin’s mind during the split second he stumbles: The oracle’s name is derived from the verb πύθειν and this man hit Raymond.

Kevin has always enjoyed facts. He has always found comfort in that which is objectively true--

But who gives a rat’s ass, really? This little punk hurt his husband.

Kevin throws his first punch, aimed at Ronny’s throat - it worked with Murphy, didn’t it?

Except that Ronny laughs and dodges and Kevin, carried by his own momentum, stumbles past and receives a kick to his back that sends him crashing hard to the ground. For a breathless moment he just lies there, back on fire, palms burning. 

“Pathetic,” Ronny scoffs.

Kevin looks up. His trajectory has carried him almost all the way to Raymond’s feet. He wants to reach out and touch him; he wants to say something to him, he wants to apologize for not being able to protect him, not just from these punks but also from the likes of John Kelly, from everyone who ever looked down on him, from the entire world if it comes to that.

Nothing makes him angrier than his perpetual failure to do so.

Kevin’s hands clench into fists. 

This isn’t over yet.

His gaze latches onto the chair leg to which Raymond is tied. It’s wooden. The whole thing is. Raymond’s legs are taped to the legs, his arms to the armrests. 

Knowing Raymond - and Kevin knows his husband, better he would say than anyone - he has been trying to free himself the entire time.

Maybe there is hope, Kevin thinks, and then Ronny kicks him in the ribs again.

***

It hurts.

***

By the time his captors saw the headlights of a car approaching the cabin, Raymond was of course already tied to this chair, had of course already been beaten in an attempt to pressure him into giving up the location of the second witness. 

He had been in pain, cursing himself for falling into this trap, and worried about his husband, more specifically about the possibility of dying at the hands of these cowardly cretins, which would lead to poor Kevin learning of his demise on this day, the anniversary of their wedding. Such an outcome would no doubt cause Doctor Cozner great emotional distress and was therefore to be avoided at all cost.

However, Raymond had not been able to loosen his bonds significantly during the hours he had spent being punched and interrogated. 

The arrival of the car and the effect it had on the thugs was like a jolt to of electricity to his dazed brain. 

“Who the fuck--?”

“Call Vinnie!”

The young men were all but falling over one another, the one named Joe finally dashing out the door to make a quick call from the cabin’s landline. By the time he returned, Raymond could hear the rumble of the car’s engine outside, still somewhat distant. The thugs switched off the lights and Joe whispered, “That idiot said it’s gotta be one of the cops and the husband. They were like going to surprise the old guy for his birthday or something.”

Raymond stiffened, the word _husband_ hitting him like a bucket of ice water. Of course. That glint he had seen in Peralta’s eyes six days ago, it had not been mere defiance but the hatching of a childish plan. A childish plan involving Kevin.

“Why the fuck didn’t he mention that earlier?”

“He said he thought it was tomorrow.”

“That fucking idiot.”

This was one point on which Raymond could agree with his captors. His new, traitorous assistant was indeed a “fucking idiot”, and so was Peralta who had - unknowingly but still - brought his husband into a dangerous situation. 

They all heard the car stop outside, then silence for a few beats, then a car door opening and shutting, quickly followed by a second car door opening and shutting as well. 

“Trey’s going round the back, he’ll get them.”

There were five of them and they all had guns. Raymond did not want to think about it. He did not want to think about a man lurking in the dark, pointing his gun at Kevin. 

A knock on the door and Peralta’s voice. 

_Let me reply, I’ll send them away,_ Raymond would have offered, had his mouth not been taped shut.

It would not have worked anyway, Kevin would have known something was wrong - Peralta as well, possibly, but Kevin definitely. Raymond could not lie to his husband.

One of the bumbling idiots chose this moment to trip in the dark, what little noise he made cutting through the silence of collectively held breaths. 

“NYPD! Open up!”

Under layers of duct-tape Raymond was frantically trying to roll his wrists; at the same time, his shins strained against the bonds. He grit his teeth, working through the pain - only to freeze when a single gunshot rang out in the dark.

_No. Anything but this._

He closed his eyes and saw Murphy’s face, heard Murphy’s voice, cool and calm, _Tell your husband Kevin I’ll see him real soon._

Raymond, his breath caught in his lungs like a hook in the gills of a fish, waiting for the cruel pull of the line, sat still. There was no second shot. The lights came back on and the door was pushed open.

“They fucking ran. Two guys, one of them definitely a cop.”

“Yeah, we heard that. Man, you didn’t get them?”

“It’s fucking dark, okay. The cop had a gun.”

“Whatever, there’s five of us and two of them, we’ll get them. Just go out and do it.”

Their mindless exchanges, each of them spoken in a lazy, sulky drawl, sounded to Raymond like the pointless lyrics of inane popular music dribbling from the radio. He hated them with every cell of his body.

The bearded one, Joe, drifted to the door. “I got an idea,” he said.

Moments later, Raymond could hear him out on the porch, yelling his ultimatum into the night. 

Peralta would know better than to fall for this, Raymond thought. He would know that the only thing that mattered was to keep Kevin safe.

With each number, Raymond grew calmer. Peralta was doing the right thing; he was running with Kevin. They would be fine.

“Nine!”

And suddenly there was movement on the porch.

Raymond stiffened.

Surely Peralta could not be this stupid. Surely--

The count had stopped. Raymond stared at the door. The little punk who had remained with him, Ronny, moved restlessly about the room. 

“I think we’re getting company, old man,” he said.

***

The pain is immeasurable.

***

“We got your detective!” Ronny’s gleeful exclamation did not come as a surprise to Raymond, who had overheard the conversation in the anteroom. He had braced himself, grim determination settling in his gut. He would simply have to find a way to escape with Peralta and perhaps all was not lost, perhaps Kevin could escape, perhaps Jake had seen no other option than to sacrifice himself to facilitate this escape.

But then Ronny took a step aside and suddenly Raymond found himself staring at an image so shocking, so wrong, his brain could barely process it.

Kevin in Peralta’s jacket, Peralta’s shield dangling from his neck.

They did not have his detective. 

They had his heart.

***

Raymond cannot bear to watch this.

Each punch, each kick Kevin receives might as well have landed on his body for the agony it causes him.

***

To Kevin, the fight is a sequence of violent images, stroboscopic chaos. It resembles nothing he has experienced in his life so far - apart from perhaps the very few sports games his father pressured him into when he was a boy. Kevin, naturally, hated them.

This, he hates more. 

He is in the grip of terror, lungs and heart in the tight fist of his chest. He hurts everywhere now - on a brain scan, his dorsal posterior insula would light up like the proverbial christmas tree.

Ronny is relentless, pummeling him and laughing because this is a game, that is all this is to the cruel young man, and this knowledge makes Kevin angrier than he has ever been in his entire life.

Joe is watching him, his cool stare boring into Kevin, who positions himself carefully, angling his aching body towards Ronny. He has not yet landed a decent hit on his target, not one.

He might not before this is over and this makes him so furious he actually wants to cry.

“You suck at this, man,” Ronny taunts, “How are you even a cop?”

Kevin grits his teeth. Raymond is now to his right. The fight has moved closer to his chair - just the way Kevin wanted it to. This is his chance.

With all the strength he has left, Kevin lunges, and deliberately drops his guard. Even before his fist fails to connect with Ronny’s chin, he throws himself to the right. Ronny’s brutal hook to the side of his face does the rest.

The momentum sends him crashing right into his tied up husband. There is the sound of wood splintering and Kevin, not even remotely recovered from the punch - he is quite literally seeing stars - is shoved aside by the avalanche in human form that is his furious husband. 

***

There is screaming and a gunshot.

Kevin rolls onto his back, scrambling to get to his feet despite the way his vision blurs his surroundings into smears of color and light. Blood drips into his eyes.

He manages to look over his shoulder and sees Raymond, bits of chair still taped to his limbs, wrestle Joe against the wall. 

Ronny, looking a little dazed as well, is getting back to his feet, one hand reaching under his jacket, his eyes on Raymond’s back.

Kevin moves on instinct, half-crawling, half-stumbling, grabbing the first heavy object he can find. He is barely standing, but he can do this.

Ronny pulls his gun, but Kevin is behind him and he slams his makeshift weapon down on the back of the little punk’s head once, twice, and maybe he is shouting something like, “How dare you hurt my husband?” 

Until suddenly, there is Raymond, his hand wrapping around Kevin’s wrist, stopping him.

“He’s done,” Raymond says gently and Kevin glances down and sees that, yes, Ronny, is on the ground, inert, bleeding quite profusely.

Kevin drops his weapon. It lands on the floor with a thud. It’s a book, he realizes, it’s _his_ book.

If he had any strength left he would have laughed. As it is, he merely staggers to the nearest wall, leans against it and ultimately allows his knees to give in. He slides down to sit on the floor like a common vagrant while Raymond picks up the guns and makes sure the thugs are well and truly incapacitated.

 _Peralta_ , Kevin thinks, his heart rate picking up again.

“Raymond, there are three more outside,” he says, speech slightly slurred. “Jake…”

Raymond is by his side instantly, down on one knee as if about to propose.

“Kevin,” he says, both hands coming up to cup his face and Kevin wants nothing more than to kiss his worried lips.

Of course, just then, the door flies open, startling them both - Raymond’s right hand twitches for the gun - and Peralta bursts into the room, brandishing a weapon in each hand, shouting, “Yippee--!”

Jake blinks, lowering his guns.

“Peralta,” Raymond says with bone-deep exasperation as he withdraws his hand from Kevin’s face.

Peralta’s gaze traverses the room, pausing a split second on each unconscious thug before settling on the bits of duct-tape still dangling from Raymond’s sleeves. “I’m here to save you?” he announces apologetically.

A beat, during which Peralta fully lowers the guns, then continues to stand awkwardly in the room after realizing he has nowhere to put them. 

Kevin clears his throat and Raymond gets to his feet.

“Wait,” Jake says, eyes going wide as realization dawns, “You were about to kiss! You can still do it, I’ll close my eyes!”

As promised, he squeezes them shut.

Kevin exchanges a glance with his husband. Raymond’s lips twitch into a perfect smile. Kevin, heart soaring in response, returns it.

“Are you doing it?” Peralta asks, voice filled with hopeful excitement, eyes still tightly shut. “Are you kissing?”

***

“We’ll contact the DA straight away, sir,” the young officer tells Raymond before nodding his goodbye. The cabin is currently swarming with uniforms securing the perimeter. From where he is sitting, the open back of an ambulance, next to his husband, whose lacerated brow is currently being stitched up, Raymond watches them go through the familiar motions.

This is calming to him. Even more calming is holding Kevin’s hand, which he has been doing continually since ordering Peralta to use the cabin’s landline phone to contact the local police office as well as the ninety-ninth precinct to inform them of the suspect in their midst. 

Raymond does not think about Commissioner John Kelly - he already knows Kelly will find some scapegoat much further down the chain of command to take the fall for this - tonight, all he will think about is his husband. And not just the image of Kevin beating a criminal into submission using a copy of his own brilliant book - though this image will probably keep Raymond warm at night until the end of his days.

He will think of Dr. Kevin Cozner, PhD., the bravest, most intelligent and most handsome man he ever met, and nothing and no one else.

As if he had read his thoughts, Kevin chooses this moment to squeeze his hand.

“We’re all done here,” the EMT announces.

Kevin thanks her and gets to his feet. Raymond follows suit.

Hands interlaced, they take a stroll across the gravel, flashes of red and blue washing over them. 

Peralta approaches, grinning. 

Naturally, Kevin returned his badge immediately. They are still, however, wearing each other’s jackets. It is a little disconcerting to see Jake in the suit jacket Kevin wore on the day they were married. Even more disconcerting is how far Peralta has shoved his hands down its pockets, stretching out the fabric. Raymond wrinkles his nose, but withholds comment. Next to him, he can feel Kevin bristle. However, Kevin, too, remains silent.

It might be ruined anyway, covered in various stains as it is. Peralta has been trying to brag about his acts of heroism, but Raymond is not at all interested in how he incapacitated those three punks. _“By myself, without my gun because I gave it to Kevin!”_

They are going to have a _talk_ about Jacob giving his gun and badge to Kevin in order to use him as bait, though. But not tonight.

“So, I just talked to Rosa and it seems like your assistant tried to fight her,” If possible, Jake’s grin widens.

While Kevin winces, Raymond allows himself a small smirk. He really hated “Vinnie”.

“Yeah,” Jake says, “she punched him good. Anyway, I also talked to some of the officers here and they said we can’t stay in the cabin, obviously, but there’s a motel, I was going to sleep there anyway. Guess you’ll just have to come along. By the way, they were super impressed with how I took out those three guys on my own--”

“Yes, yes, Peralta, I will read about it in your report,” Raymond interrupts. 

“Wait, I have to write a report?”

“Could you give us the directions to the motel, please?” Kevin asks, ignoring Jake’s outraged exclamation. 

“Sure,” Jake grumbles, but then, almost instantly, he brightens again, his entire face lighting up. “Anyway, it’s not midnight yet, so Happy Anniversary!”

“It is in fact three minutes past midnight,” Raymond corrects.

Lightly, Kevin rests his free hand on Raymond’s bicep. “Regardless of that,” he says, his gentle voice the antidote to all of the world’s irritants, “thank you, Jake.”

Raymond nods, pushing away encroaching thoughts of how this night might have unfolded if not for his detective’s decision to meddle in his private affairs. Or how close he has come - again! - to losing the love of his life, Doctor Kevin Cozner.

“Yes, Peralta,” he says, hoping his tone conveys the weight of his gratitude, “thank you.”

It must have, because Jake’s grin softens into a smile, wide and warm, and he ducks his head, and quickly wipes the back of his hand over his face. 

“I’m just glad,” he says, interrupting himself to clear his throat. “Sorry, just, you know, glad you’re okay.”

“We are, thanks to you.” Kevin, gracious as ever, puts a hand on the now sniffling detective’s shoulder. “Oh,” he adds, a twinkle in his eye, “You were right, Jake, I did sweep someone off his feet tonight.”

Raymond nods at his husband, squeezing his hand. Kevin’s wedding ring presses warm into his skin. “Yes, and now that punk has to go to the hospital,” he declares with a triumphant glance at the ambulance pulling away from the cabin.

“Wow, you guys are the worst,” Peralta says, before mumbling something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “I love you. Please adopt me.”

“Shall we?” Kevin asks, taking a step towards their car and tugging gently on Raymond’s hand.

“Yes, dear.” Raymond smiles at his husband and the police lights fade into the background, as does Peralta, as does everything that isn’t Doctor Kevin Cozner PhD.


End file.
